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collecting-stories · 9 months

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Strawberry Gazpacho - Carmen Berzatto

A/N: Some people asked for a part 2 of Blueberry BBQ, so I decided to stay on the fruit trend!

Summary: Reader and Carmy continue to bond over food.

The Bear Masterlist

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"What is this?" You asked, staring down at the bowl Carmy had placed on top of your papers. You were in the back office, trying to work on the week's payroll when he'd come in, told you that you needed a lunch break, and placed a plate down in front of you.

"Try it," he urged, wringing his hands in his apron and looking like an eager little kid.

"Carm-"

"Try it," he repeated and you obliged. Regardless of what it was you knew you would like it. Carmy made it, which immediately meant it couldn't be bad, but also, Carmy made it. For you, more specifically. You took the proffered spoon and dipped it into the bowl, surprised when you pressed it to your lips and found that it was, in fact, cold.

"Gazpacho?" You asked, after a second bite.

You had told him last night, while watching TV and letting him finish the tupperware of tofu feta that's you'd made the day before, that you hated gazpacho. You loved soup and tomato was your favorite; a nice, roasted red-pepper tomato, heavy on the garlic, that you'd perfected over the years. But no gazpacho. You couldn't get used to the fact that it was cold.

"You like it?" He asked in a way that suggested he might genuinely be worried that you would tell him it was horrible.

"I mean, it's the best gazpacho I've ever had," you took another bite as proof, "it's spicy."

"But?"

You weren't sure if he was fishing for a compliment or trying to convert you onto a food you held in disdain but you assumed that if he wanted someone to tell him that he was a skilled chef he would've gone to Syd or Marcus with his cold soup.

"It's cold soup Carmy, I just can't fuck with cold soup." You replied, "it's good though."

He reached for the spoon in your hand and dipped it into the bowl, trying some of the gazpacho that he had made. He nodded his head, as if to confirm that it was good, as if he didn't already know it would be.

"Should I like, fall over at your feet and tell you that you've converted me to gazpacho and it's the only thing I'll ever order for the rest of my life?" You teased, leaning an elbow on the desk. It felt completely natural to be this relaxed with him and yet, just weeks earlier, you'd been fretting over the idea of having him come over for Sunday dinner.

He handed the spoon back and you took another experimental taste.

"I mean, you're still eating it," he pointed out, grinning.

In no world would Carmy say that he was 'good with people'. If he wasn't saying the wrong thing then he was saying nothing at all (and that was also wrong). He wanted to spend more time with you, the most time he could afford outside of The Beef but the only way he really knew how to spend time with anyone was cooking. So he kept cooking for you, things you liked, things you hated but liked when he made them. He kept trying to find the perfect thing to say and the perfect recipe to go along with it, as if that would remedy his inability to tell you that he wanted more from whatever this situation currently was. You weren't dating but he wanted to be dating but he wasn't exactly the dating type (as far as having an actual open schedule went).

"Touche," you replied, taking another bite. "I can't decide if I'll regret telling you this or not but my mom has a recipe for strawberry gazpacho that apparently my grandma used to make every summer."

"Strawberry?"

"I can already see the gears turning in your head Carmy," you laughed.

He looked down at you, piercing blue eyes taking your measure, "can you get me the recipe?"

"Are you gonna make me eat it?" You practically pouted.

He nodded, "yes."

You groaned and leaned back in the office chair, "god, the things I do for you Carmy." You sighed. "I'll text my mom for the recipe...I can pick stuff up on my way home, if you want. Or if you're all gazpacho'ed out-"

"No, tonight works." He agreed.

Before you could say anything else Marcus was calling Carmy back to the kitchen. He wiped his hands on his apron once more and push himself off the desk. Before he could pick up the bowl you put your hand over his, "I might try another bite."

There were other things that Carmy could probably be doing with his evening. Catching up on sleep, working on the recipes that he and Syd had been spitballing for the updated menu, mending whatever semblance of a relationship he still had with Sugar. Instead he was looking forward to going to your apartment (which was leagues nicer than his shitty place) and cooking. He'd lived so long on white bread and peanut butter and chips and soft drinks and anything quick that he'd forgotten what it was like to cook just because he enjoyed cooking. Hell, he'd forgotten that he enjoyed it. The only thing, lately, that really felt like it brought that enjoyment back was standing in your kitchen.

"Rigoletto has taken up residence on the island and he refuses to move so...we're down some counter space," you said as soon as you opened the door to Carmy, moving aside to let him into your apartment.

He stopped at the island, leaning over to pet Rigoletto, who half-heartedly rolled onto his side to give Carmy better access to his stomach. "Hey chef," he teased. He turned to look at you, still stroking the cat as he did, "strawberry gazpacho?"

"I would just like to disclaimer that I don't think strawberries are going to improve my deep-seated hatred of gazpacho but-"

"I mean, you did eat most of the one I made earlier," Carmy pointed out as your mouth fell open in surprise.

"Angel! What a snitch!" You laughed, "I can't believe he told you."

"Hey, it's my kitchen, I've gotta know what's going on." He followed you around the other side of the island, grabbing the notebook you had sitting on the counter and scanning over the recipe. You'd called your mom on the way home and asked for a copy of the recipe, which she'd gladly texted ("does this have something to do with that cute chef where you work?"). You'd picked up whatever ingredients you didn't already have at your house and set everything out for Carmy before he'd even gotten there. You felt a little silly, being so excited just to have him come over and cook with you (for you) when there was no real definition to what your relationship was.

"Did you cook growing up? Like with your mom and stuff?" You asked, stealing a strawberry out of the plastic container.

"No," Carmy shook his head, then amended his answer, "not really. My ma always told us to help but if we did she yelled at us for doing something the wrong way...it was better to just stay outta her way when she was in the kitchen. You?"

"Oh yeah, my mom's not like...the best chef in the world or anything but she loved trying new stuff. Anything we wanted we could ask for and she'd try to make it. And then as we got older we would have like, nights where one of us got to cook." You replied, "I like it but...I don't think I'm good at it."

"You are...I mean....not like, you've got potential." Carmy explained, blue eyes glancing up to meet you across the island and you smiled.

"Thank you chef."

You left Carmy to the strawberry gazpacho and the chicken he'd brought over to make some dish you'd never heard of before while you got Rigoletto's dinner out. The cat had finally moved off the island and you sprayed it down with cleaner to at least give yourself a better chance of not picking white cat hair off your dinner plate.

Carmy fit right into your kitchen, probably the whole apartment for that matter. It was something both of you had thought, more than once, but neither of you said anything about. He felt like he was waiting for something bad to come from all the good you had been supplying in his life recently. Bad news always felt like it was lurking around the corner for him, especially these days, and he didn't want to put everything in one basket. But being in your kitchen, in your space, felt good. It felt like he was supposed to be there.

"Did you know," you were saying as you came back into the kitchen, leaning near him to look at the chicken he was searing on the stovetop, "that I didn't know what mortadella was before I started working at the Beef?"

Carmy turned his head to watch you fish a piece of garlic out of the skillet and eat it whole, "Did you just?"

"It was cooked."

"It was a whole clove of garlic."

"I love garlic," you shrugged, dropping the fork in the sink, "but seriously, I had to google it cause I didn't know what Richie was talking about when he was trying to explain it."

"It's very Italian." Carmy replied.

"You're very Italian." You grinned and he rolled his eyes.

"I am, yeah." And then, "I still can't believe you ate that."

"You act like you've never eaten garlic before."

"Not just shoved a whole clove in my mouth." He replied.

"It tasted good." You shrugged, "I always use too much garlic. Like if a recipe says three cloves I use six."

"Yeah that's why I said you had potential."

"Well now I just feel like that's your 'I don't wanna hurt your feelings' way of saying I'm actually shit at cooking." You replied.

"Nah, if you were shit I'd tell you."

"Yeah but then who'd balance the books for you?" You teased, searching in the cabinet under the island for wine, "red or white?"

"Uh...white for this." Carmy replied.

You pushed the bottle of red you were holding back into the cabinet and went to the fridge, pulling out the Chardonnay you'd bought last week. You grabbed two glasses from the cabinet, handing him one once it was poured.

"Is this the 'only white you'll drink' wine?" He asked, taking a sip.

The last time he had come over to cook with you (for you) there had been a long discussion about different wines in which you'd explained that there was only one type of white that you liked. More accurately, one brand that made a chardonnay you didn't completely hate.

"Yeah...they finally restocked!" You exclaimed, leaning against the counter, "the woman at the Wine and Spirits definitely thinks I'm an alcoholic though...I bought like, four bottles."

Carmy shook his head, reaching a hand out for the bottle and splashing a little into the pan when you handed it to him. Kitchens were crowded and Carmy was more than used to working in an environment where people were constantly at each other's side or back or space but something about having you leaning there against the counter beside him was both extremely nerve-wracking and extremely comforting.

He didn't say anything about it though, at least not until after you'd eaten dinner and were sitting on the couch avoiding the dishes. Then he blurted it out while you watched reruns of Murder, She Wrote with Rigoletto. "I always thought I would do stuff like this when I was younger."

"Watch 80's tv shows on a Tuesday night?" You asked.

"No," he laughed, "Just like...I don't know....you know, make dinner with someone. Or, I guess, not feel like my entire life was in a restaurant all the time."

"Well I'll always be happy to make dinner with you...or at least supply the wine while you make dinner." You replied, grinning at him.

"Yeah," he nodded his head slowly, as if convincing himself that what you were saying was true.

"Yeah," you agreed.

#collecting stories imagine #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto imagine #carmy x reader #carmy x you #carmy x y/n #the bear fanfiction #the bear imagine #the bear fanfic

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theredwritingwitch · 1 year

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Soulmate Fic- Home Cookin’

Pairing: Frankie Morales x reader

Soulmate AU: Food has no taste till you meet your soulmate.

Words: 1.4k

Warnings: food consumption

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Frankie just wasn’t one for parties. He was getting too old for the loud music, too achy for the dancing, and too stubborn for the small talk. Honestly, Frankie was rather hoping to spend his weekend with a cold beer and a small home improvement project in his garage. Maybe even grab a meal with the guys one night. But Santi was back in town, for good this time. Him and his soulmate Yovanna were throwing a housewarming party, and invited several friends and new neighbors over for dinner. Frankie was obliged to go as Santi’s best friend, but deep down, well actually not very deep at all, he loathed every minute of this party.

The cross of his arms and tugged down brim of his cap gave a good indication of Frankie’s lack of interest in the conversation. Even as Benny awed his small audience in the living room with his tale of his latest fight, Will and Frankie stood on their own in the corner of the room. Santi and Yovanna were busy in the kitchen, bickering over food and drinks.

“Santi says Yovanna’s cooking tastes amazing,” Will broke the brief pause in their conversation.

“I bet, but what does his cooking taste like?” Frankie smirked at his friend.

“Probably like a donkey’s ass.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing we don’t know what food tastes like then.”

“Someday you both will try my cooking and then you’ll be begging me for more,” Santi announced as he joined in on the conversation. The two men laughed at their friend as they got a good view of the old Delta Force operator in a greasy apron decaled with the phrase “Life is what you BAKE it.” Frankie played with the small front pocket of the apron as Santi flicked his fingers away announcing to the rest of the house, “Dinner’s ready! Grab a plate, it’s buffet style tonight!”

The guests followed Santi into the kitchen, where a spread of gorgeous food lay out on the kitchen island. Pitchers of pink strawberry margaritas and bright yellow summertime tea sat on the far counter. Colorful and festive bowls of cheese dip, salsa, and feta dip were situated near piles of blue and yellow tortilla chips and pretzel chips. On the island were plates of finely browned meatballs in lush gravy, grilled shrimp in a beautiful lime and lemon salsa, and brilliantly golden ravioli with choice of creamy alfredo sauce or bright red creamy tomato sauce. Even the dessert of a soft and sweetly pink meringue topped with glossy red strawberries and blueberries.

The guests all congratulated Yovanna and Santi on the beautiful and vibrant display of food. A line quickly formed as everyone made their way through the buffet, grabbing food and drinks before sitting down to eat. As the boys waited for their turn for food, Frankie stood behind Benny, smiling as his brother poked and prodded the younger man on his ever elaborating story. Benny, never one to back down from a fight, poked right back.

“Every time I hear you retell that story, it seems to get a little longer,” Will chided.

“And every time I look over at you two old men, I see more lines appearing on your ever growing foreheads.”

“Careful baby brother, these things could be in the genes, you better watch yourself.”

“Why don’t you watch what's ahead of you,” Benny pointed as he shoved Will lightly to the empty space in the line ahead of him.

Will stumbled forward but then purposely leaned back and fell against his brother, pushing the younger man into Frankie and thus forcing him to stumble back. A small squeak of surprise came out from behind Frankie, causing him to quickly turn to find its source. Frankie’s large brown eyes found yours as he turned to start spouting out an apology. You eyed the handsome man before you as he looked at you with his dropping wide open mouth. Frankie expected the person behind him to be one of the couples that showed up together, not the pretty girl next door that came over alone. Caught off guard by the sudden impact and the clear silence, you tried to stammer out an “excuse me” to the man before you.

“No no, I’m sorry. My friend pushed me. It’s my fault.”

“I was standing too close, I could have given you more space.”

“No really it’s my bad. These two idiots get me in all sorts of trouble.”

Your giggle had Frankie smiling as he introduced himself. The two of you made light conversation as you made your way through the line of food and joined the rest of the guests. Many were already chowing down on the colorful food. Santi was explaining how long he grilled the shrimp to give them the crisp they needed for their warm color. Frankie took a bite of the shrimp then, chewing and pulling the shrimp apart just to chew the clearly overcooked shrimp some more before finally swallowing, tasting nothing but the charcoal of the grill and a hint of lime. Frankie froze as all these new flavors hit his tongue. There had been plenty of times where Frankie had eaten Santi’s cooking that he had chewed and chewed the overcooked food to bits, but never once did he properly tasted it. Slowly he lifted the crisp shrimp to his tongue again, lightly tasting the overdone flames of the grill. Now wide eyed, Frankie dropped the shrimp then. He knew what this meant as his brain and eyes went into overdrive, analyzing the people around him. One of these neighbors had to be his soulmate, he just had to figure out if anyone else was having the same stomach turning emotions as he.

Chugging his margarita down to get the terrible taste out of his mouth, Frankie hummed at the delicious tastes that hit the back of his throat. His eyes quickly traveled around the room, taking note of everyone’s reactions. Many continued eating as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing was different. A few couples frowned at the food, but stayed as neutral as possible.

Frankie grimaced and went on to the meatballs, which were undercooked from the looks of the pink center and the raw taste of meat that hit his tongue. Santi must have cooked that as well. Yovanna’s ravioli saved the meal though as Frankie slurped down the tomato sauce and creamy cheese centers of the ravioli. Never in all his dreams and real travels could Frankie imagine the range of tastes that were out there in the world, even if some of them were quite bad. Frankie wondered if his soulmate was going mad from the food. But he couldn’t find anyone freaking out as he was as he looked over the guests to see many conversing with others and continuing on with their eating. He suppressed a groan from the delicious tastes of the ravioli so as to not bring attention to himself, but a cough coming from right next to him broke him out of his thoughts.

There you sat, tucked away in the corner of the room just out of eye sight of Frankie, coughing up rubbery shrimp. A few pairs of sympathetic eyes landed on you, all from people who were clearly couples, as you continued to cough.

“Try the margarita, it’ll help clear your throat,” Frankie watched you intently as he handed you his cup.

You grabbed the drink with thanks and swallowed a decent portion down. Frankie chuckled as your eyes bugged out from the delicious taste.

“Yovanna must have made the margaritas then, because Santi definitely made the tea,” you groaned out.

“I thought the same thing. Just a warning, don’t try the meatballs.”

“Oh no, another Santi creation I presume,” you chuckled and looked over at Frankie.

“Seems to be,” Frankie rubbed his beard contemplating if he should try his luck.

“I’m all of a sudden very new to this whole taste thing…” you paused as you shyly looked over to Frankie.

“Same, I’m new to it as well,” he smiled down at you which only made you mirror his smile. Looking around the room and back at you, Frankie shifted in his seat, “you know maybe the two of us could head out early and see what other things taste like…” Frankie internally groaned at his own words. It had been awhile since he flirted with anyone.

You laughed though, “I think that’s a great idea, we’ve got a lot to experience now don’t we.”

After one shared sweet meringue and at least one week spent together as a couple later; Frankie and you made sure to mail Santi a thank you card for the housewarming party, and enclosed one gift card to a cooking class.

#Frankie Morales #frankie morales x reader #Triple Frontier #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x you

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